‘Was you thinkin’, maybe,’ he suggested, ‘that some felonious body was interested in seein’ that Ferguson didna take oot his car that mornin’?’
‘Inspector,’ said Wimsey, ‘you are a mind-reader. I was thinking exactly that.’
Farren had returned to Kirkcudbright. His dream of escape had vanished. His wife had forgiven him. His absence was explained as a trifling and whimsical eccentricity. Gilda Farren sat, upright and serene, spinning the loose white flock into a strong thread that wound itself ineluctably to smother the twirling spindle. The story had been told to the police. Sir Maxwell Jamieson shook his head over it. Short of arresting Farren, they must remain content with his story or else disprove it. And they could not very well arrest Farren, for they might want to arrest Waters or Gowan or Graham or even Strachan, all of whose stories were equally odd and suspicious. It would be preposterous to arrest five people for one crime.
The porter at Girvan was still desperately ill. He had – out of pure perversity, no doubt – developed peritonitis. The Euston bicycle had been duly identified as the property of young Andrew of the Anwoth, but what evidence was there that it had any connection with Campbell? If Farren were the murderer it had obviously no connection with it at all, for Farren could not have taken the Ayr train at Girvan and been in New Galloway at 3 o’clock. And that part of Farren’s story was true, anyway, for they had checked it. No, Farren, like the rest, must have rope given him. So Farren sat sulkily in his studio and Mrs. Farren span – not a rope, perhaps, but fetters at any rate – in the sitting-room with the cool blue curtains.
The Chief Constable took upon himself the task of interviewing Strachan, who received him with politeness, but without enthusiasm.
‘We have obtained a statement from Mr. Farren,’ said Sir Maxwell, ‘with reference to his movements on Monday night and Tuesday morning, which required your corroboration.’
‘Indeed,’ said Strachan. ‘In what way?’
‘Come,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘you know very well in what way. We know, from Mr. Farren’s story, that you have not told us all the facts about your own movements at that time. Now that Mr. Farren has given his explanation, you have no longer any reason for reticence.’
‘I don’t altogether understand this,’ said Strachan. ‘Mr. Farren, as I am told, went for a holiday trip to England and has returned. Why should I answer any questions about his private affairs? To what is the inquiry directed?’
‘Mr. Strachan,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘I do most earnestly beg you not to take up this attitude. It can do no good and only creates difficulties and, if I may say so, suspicion. You are perfectly well aware that we are inquiring into the circumstances of Mr. Campbell’s murder, and that it is absolutely necessary for us to obtain information about all the persons who saw Mr. Campbell shortly before his death. Mr. Farren saw him at 6 o’clock on Monday week, and he has given us an account of his movements since that time. This account requires your corroboration. If you can give it, where is the point of refusing?’
‘The point is,’ said Strachan, ‘that Mr. Farren is going about at liberty, and that therefore, presumably, you have nothing against him. In that case, I am not bound to answer any impertinent queries about his behaviour or his personal affairs. If, on the other hand, you intend to accuse him or me of anything criminal, it is your duty to say so, and also to warn us that we are not obliged to answer your questions.’
‘Of course,’ said Sir Maxwell, smothering his annoyance, ‘you are not in any way bound to answer if you think that by so doing you will incriminate yourself. But you cannot prevent us from drawing the natural conclusion from your refusal.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘Certainly not. It is a warning.’
‘And if I thank you for the warning and still decline to make a statement?’
‘In that case, well—’
‘In that case your only alternative is to arrest me and charge me with murder, or with complicity. Are you prepared to go as far as that?’
The Chief Constable was not by any means prepared, but he replied, curtly:
‘You will have to take your chance of that.’
Strachan paused, tapping his fingers on the table. The clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly, and the voice of Myra floated in from the garden, playing at tig with her mother and the nurse.
‘Very well,’ said Strachan, at last. ‘What does Farren say that wants my corroboration?’
Sir Maxwell Jamieson was annoyed again at the obviousness of this trap.
‘I am afraid that won’t do, Mr. Strachan,’ he said, a little acidly. ‘It will be better, I think, that you should begin from the beginning and give me your own account of what happened.’
‘What do you call the beginning?’
‘Begin by saying where you were on Monday afternoon.’
‘On Monday afternoon? I was out, painting.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Up at Balmae. Would you like proof of that? I can show you the canvas, but of course that won’t bear visible signs of having been painted on Monday. However, I daresay somebody saw the car. I stuck it in a field and walked down to the edge of the cliff. Subject of the painting, Ross Island. Price, when finished, 50 guineas.’
‘What time did you leave there?’
‘About half-past seven.’
‘Did the light remain good as long as that?’
‘Good heavens!’ said Strachan. ‘Are the police going to display intelligence about art? No, it didn’t, but I had taken my dinner out with me. The dinner consisted of cold meat sandwiches, baps, brown bread, cheese and tomatoes, with a bottle of Worthington. To entertain myself during the orgy I had a book – a very nice book, all about a murder committed in this part of the country. Sir John Magill’s Last Journey, by one Mr. Crofts. You should read it. The police in that book called in Scotland Yard to solve their problems for them.’
Sir Maxwell took this information without wincing, and merely demanded:
‘Did you then return to Gatehouse?’
‘I did not. I went on to Tongland.’
‘Passing through Kirkcudbright?’
‘Not being in an aeroplane, obviously I had to pass through Kirkcudbright.’
‘I mean, at what time?’
‘At about 8 o’clock.’
‘Did anybody see you?’
‘I have no doubt they did. It is my experience that one never passes through Kirkcudbright or anywhere else without being seen by at least half a dozen people.’
‘You did not stop at all?’
‘I did not.’
‘You went on to Tongland. And there?’
‘I fished. Total bag, one trout, three-quarters of a pound, one ditto, seven ounces, and three that were too young to leave home.’
‘Did you see anybody there?’
‘I don’t know that I did. The keeper knows me, but he wasn’t there. But I dare say some busybody or other noticed me.’
‘When did you leave Tongland?’
‘Round about 11 o’clock, I think. The fish seemed to have lost enthusiasm, and so did I.’
‘And then?’
‘Then I went home like a good boy. I got back some time round about midnight.’
‘You could produce witnesses to that, of course?’
‘Of course. My wife and my servant. But naturally they would swear to anything I told them to swear to.’
‘No doubt,’ said Sir Maxwell, unmoved by this sarcasm. ‘What then?’
‘I went out again in the car.’
‘Why?’
‘To look for Farren.’
‘What made you do that?’
‘I found a note from him waiting for me.’
‘Have you still got that note?’
‘No, I burnt it.’
‘What was in it?’
‘He told me that he was going to commit suicide. I thought I ought to follow him and stop him.’
‘Did he say where he
was going?’
‘No, but I thought he would probably go up into the hills by Creetown. We had sometimes discussed the question of suicide, and the old mines up there seemed to have a kind of attraction for him.’
‘I see. You went straight over to Creetown?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you quite sure, Mr. Strachan?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Sir Maxwell was a cautious man, but there was something guarded in Strachan’s tone which warned him that this was a lie, and a sudden illumination moved him to risk a bluff.
‘Then you would be very surprised if I told you that your car had been seen on the road between the Anwoth Hotel and Standing Stone Pool between midnight and 12.30?’
Strachan was obviously not prepared for this.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I should be surprised.’
‘It is surprising,’ rejoined the Chief Constable, ‘but, as you say, there is always some busybody about. Anyway, now that you are reminded of it, you do recollect going in that direction?’
‘Well, yes. I had forgotten about it for the moment; I went – I thought—’
‘You went to Campbell’s house, Mr. Strachan. As a matter of fact, you were seen there. Why did you go?’
‘I thought possibly I might find Farren there.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, well – he didn’t like Campbell very much, and I thought – it struck me as just possible that he might have had the idea of getting an explanation or something from Campbell.’
‘That was an odd thing for you to think, was it not?’
‘Not very. After all, it’s no good pretending that Campbell and he were on good terms. They had had a quarrel that evening—’
‘Yes, but you didn’t know that at the time, Mr. Strachan. You tell me that you went straight through from Balmae to Tongland without stopping or speaking to anybody in Kirkcudbright.’
‘No, that’s true. But of course, if Farren wanted to commit suicide, I could put two and two together.’
‘I see. It was just a guess. There was nothing in Mr. Farren’s note to suggest that he might be going to see Mr. Campbell?’
‘Nothing whatever.’
‘Mr. Strachan, I must warn you that if you persist in concealing the truth, you may involve yourself in very serious trouble. We know the contents of the note.’
‘Oh!’ Strachan shrugged his shoulders. ‘If you know, why ask me?’
‘We are asking you for independent corroboration, Mr. Strachan, and I must say that you are making things very difficult for Mr. Farren and for us by this attitude.’
‘Well, if Farren has told you— Very well, then, the note did mention Campbell, and I went along to see if Farren was there, and, if not, to warn Campbell.’
‘To warn him? You took Mr. Farren’s threats very seriously then?’
‘Well, not very seriously. But they are both excitable men, and I thought that there might be a great deal of unpleasantness if they met in that mood, and possibly a really nasty row.’
‘Did you deliver the warning?’
‘The house was empty. I knocked two or three times and then, as everything was dark, I went in.’
‘The door was open, then?’
‘No, but I knew where to find the key.’
‘Was that a thing everybody knew?’
‘How should I know? I only knew that I’d often seen Campbell hang it up, after locking the door, on a particular nail hidden behind the gutter-spout.’
‘I see. So you went in?’
‘Yes. Everything was quite clean and tidy and it didn’t look as though Campbell had been in. There were no supper-dishes or anything about, and he wasn’t in bed, because I went upstairs to see. I left a note for him on the table and came away again, relocking the door and putting the key back where I found it.’
Only by a great effort of self-control did the Chief Constable keep from showing the staggering effect of this piece of news. He succeeded in asking in matter-of-fact tones:
‘What exactly did you say in the note?’ As Strachan seemed to hesitate, he added, with more assurance than he felt:
‘Try to make your recollection more precise this time, Mr. Strachan. As you see, we are sometimes able to check these items.’
‘Yes,’ said Strachan, coolly. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been rather wondering why I haven’t heard about the note before.’
‘Have you? Didn’t you take it for granted that Campbell had received it and destroyed it?’
‘I did at first,’ said Strachan, ‘and that was why I thought all this fuss about Monday night so unnecessary. If Campbell came in after I was there, then he was alive long after I saw him. He had his breakfast, didn’t he? At least, I understood so – and I supposed he had seen the note then and got rid of it.’
‘But you don’t think that now?’
‘Well, if you’ve got the note, he obviously didn’t. And if you’d found it on his dead body, you’d surely have mentioned it before this.’
‘I did not say,’ said Sir Maxwell, patiently, ‘when the note had come into our possession.’
For some reason, this remark appeared to unnerve Strachan, and he remained silent.
‘Well, now,’ said the Chief Constable, ‘do you mind telling me what was in the note? You have had plenty of time to think it over.’
‘To invent something, you mean? Well, I’m not going to invent, but I can’t undertake to remember it word for word. I think I said something like this: “Dear Campbell, – I am rather anxious about F. He is in a highly-wrought-up state and is threatening to do you some injury. However much he may have to complain of your behaviour – and you know best about this – I think it advisable to put you on your guard.” It was something like that, and I signed it with my initials.’
‘You thought it worth while to write that note about a friend of yours to a man you personally disliked – and you still say you did not take Farren’s threats seriously?’
‘Well, you never know. I was thinking more of Farren than of Campbell. I didn’t want him to get into trouble – an action for assault, or anything of that kind.’
‘It still seems to me a fairly strong step to take, Mr. Strachan. How often had Farren seriously threatened to harm Campbell?’
‘He had occasionally expressed himself in rather a reckless manner.’
‘Had he ever attacked him?’
‘N–no. There was a slight fuss once—’
‘I seem to remember hearing something about a quarrel – about six months ago, was it?’
‘About that. But it didn’t amount to anything.’
‘In any case, you thought the matter of enough importance to write the note to a man as notoriously indiscreet and fiery-tempered as Campbell. That speaks for itself, doesn’t it? What happened next?’
‘I went up to Creetown in my car and turned off up the hill road. I left the car where the road ends just beyond Falbae, and went along on foot calling Farren as I went. There was no moon, but it was starlight and I had my torch with me. I know that road pretty well. At least, it isn’t a road, but a sort of shepherd’s path. When I got close to the old mines I began searching about carefully. Presently I thought I saw something move and I shouted again. Then I saw that there really was a man there. He ran away and I followed him and caught him up. I said, “My God, Farren, is that you?” and he said, “What the hell do you want?” So I caught hold of him.’
‘Was it Farren?’
Strachan seemed to hesitate again, but finally replied, ‘Yes, it was.’
‘Well?’
‘Well I argued with him for some time and tried to persuade him to come home. He absolutely refused and started to move off again. I took him by the arm, but he struggled with me and in the confusion he hit me in the face and knocked me down. By the time I had scrambled up again he had got away from me, and I could hear him scrambling over some stones in the distance. I ran after him. It was pretty dark, of course, but the sky was qui
te clear and one could see moving objects like lumps of grey shadow. I caught glimpses of him now and again when he came up on the sky-line. You know that place – all dips and hillocks. I was getting pretty well winded and I was thinking about him and didn’t look where I was going. I tripped over a bunch of stuff and found myself falling head-first – over the edge of the world, it seemed to me. I bumped and banged against what felt like baulks of timber, and finally brought up against something. I was completely knocked out of course. Anyhow, when I came to my senses I found myself at the bottom of a pretty deep place with black darkness rising up all round me and a patch of starlight at the top. I felt round very cautiously and tried to get up, but the moment I was on my feet, I went all sick and giddy and lost consciousness again. I don’t know how long that lasted. It must have been a good many hours, because when I came to myself again it was broad daylight, and I was able to see where I was.’
‘One of the old shafts, I suppose.’
‘Yes, Lord! it was a place! I don’t suppose it was more than forty feet deep, but that looked quite enough to me, and it went sheer up like a chimney, with a little square of light twinkling away at the top; it seemed a mile off. It was narrow, fortunately. By spread-eagling myself I could get a grip on the sides and hoist myself painfully up by inches, but it was slow work, and my head was so swimmy and my legs so weak that I simply tumbled down again after the first two or three attempts. I yelled and yelled, hoping against hope that somebody might hear me, but the place was as silent as the grave. I was extraordinarily lucky not to have broken a leg or an arm. If I had, I suppose I should have been down there now.’
‘No,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘We should have brought you up on Friday or Saturday.’
‘Ah! – well, by that time I don’t suppose I should have been in any condition to worry about it. Well, after resting a bit more I got my head and legs under better control, and gradually wormed my way up. It was a slow job, because the sides were smooth and didn’t give much foothold or handhold, and sometimes I’d lose purchase and slip down a few feet. Fortunately there were horizontal beams across the sides at intervals, and I was able to catch on to them and give myself a bit of a breather from time to time. I kept on hoping that the people at the farm would find my car and come to look for me, but if they did see it, they probably thought I was fishing or picnicking somewhere and attached no importance to it. I clawed my way up – happily I’m on the tall and hefty side – and at last – God! it was a relief – I found myself at the top and hooked an arm out on to the blessed grass. There was an awful tussle with that last foot or so – I thought I should never heave myself over the edge, but I managed it somehow. I dragged my legs out after me, feeling as though they were made of solid lead, and then I just rolled over and lay gasping. Ugh!’
Five Red Herrings Page 23